It will take time to get the words back.

 I do not know why this agony.

I do not know why tonight, why these nights.

I do not know what this discomfort ends up with now.

I do not know why everything fits so well.

It scares.

Reconstruct the calm when we see you, something changed color, believing that the bodies ...

Causality.

New publications, self-identifying again, scared, elusive. We touch each other gently.

I hate subtlety.

We are naked and guilty.

I hate guilt.

I carry pages written while I hear you sing.

I have a small coat and early in the morning it starts to get wet.

I have to leave, I have to leave. I know.

I want to stay. I know.

It will take time to liberate or reconcile.

It will take time to get the words back.

It will lead to untrained concerns.

At least the same music is still playing. I'm a classic. I need well-known songs.

I have stuck the words. I know.

You have hidden vanity. I know.

(We must persevere near and far.)

We are collaborators. I know.

Get away from the old ones.

 They assimilate the horizons. What does it matter if the world

is it flat or round?

Imagine dissolving in the atmosphere.

embracing everything.

Create visions for places you will come and meet

which will always be distant,

impossible like any ideal.

Get away from the old ones.

Look at the edge that cuts a carbonated water.

and heavy.

Tearing yourself from the known

Drink what follows.

To have a bow soul.

Where the silence goes out ...

 I'm trying to tell you this, I'm desperate to wait for you.

it does not hurt anymore, it is no longer strange.

neither do you.

neither do you.

Me neither.

strange if that happens.

what you, she, the other

me too.

we were the static postcard of pleasures.

the soul no longer hurts

- with her, you and the other, it does not hurt.

from the beginning, as if that were it,

perhaps, freedoms.

The birds are heard.

dawn.

water the plants,

he smiled again, remembering

the "provocative" message.

And a waning moon.

the new moon is approaching.

from you - and of course ...

depends on and

of music.

and December.

........................

then let's talk about why I insist - with me and sometimes with you - that we miss a meeting

- maybe the last one, it does not matter -

but we need to talk about why

you and I bet to stay

together - maybe forever, it does not matter -

but we bet, we live, there we go later let

talk about that february, and the sea, and march, and may, and november

- as if there were years and they marked us -

but now in this ignorance

then let's talk about why the pacifist - now so far away - and our sorrows

they kiss

in front of a church.

.............................

and even if it seems strange to you.

music is what you give

the last time i saw you, your skin was pounding, in love.

your smile loved every detail (with everyone's death)

your skin, your smile, your kisses were not in love with mine.

but your kisses struck in love

, liquids, from the beginning of kisses

us your caresses, warm, thin, long.

last time i saw you,

your love exploded

in each resource

in every sigh

to every whining

Thank you for spreading.

this debauchery

- yours of another body -

on the body

my breath

in my emotions

me there,

on this earth,

another area

- so ours-

so remote

from

my own.

.........................

Ροές νοσταλγίας.

 

Τα αναστενάρια των ψυχών

διεγείρουν τις προθέσεις

στο σεργιάνι των στεναγμών.

Εκεί που λέξεις μεταμορφώνονται

στερημένες από την παρουσία

και τη θλίψη της υποταγής

στου ανέμου τα λημέρια.

Εκεί ακούω την ανάσα σου τα βράδια.

Μια ανάσα με την μυρωδιά της σήψης.

Ο ορίζοντάς μου μαρμαρωμένος έμεινε

εκεί που σβήνουν τα φώτα

στο τέλος της σήραγγας.

Έγινες μια πνοή

που κούρσεψες τις απαντοχές μου

μέσα από δρόμους

με παρενθέσεις και τελείες.

Μέριασα να διαβούν οι ανάσες σου

και κάτω από το δέρμα σου

σαρκάζουν χίλιοι εαυτοί.

Στα άφατα και στα σκοτάδια ψηλάφισα

τα απρόβλεπτα καλέσματα των χρησμών.

Εκεί στο απόθλιμμα των στιγμών

στα λοίσθια της νύχτας

ανιχεύω προσμονές

ροές νοσταλγίας

αποπλανημές μνήμες 

εξομολογούμαι τις σιωπές μου

και τις παραφράσεις των στιγμών

και στα άδεια παγκάκια των σταθμών

μετρώ τις βροχής τις στάλες...